Dark locker rooms
by Willow Elijah
Summary: Normal AU: Baz and Simon are on the same football team. One day when Simon is being particularly attractive, Baz behaves recklessly and he thinks he'll get kicked of the team which causes him to be even more reckless. (One shot.)
**Baz**

I have a routine.

Every morning I wake up and make a shake mixing spinach, kale, oatmeal, protein powder and water. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and switch to my football clothes. I chuck the shake, clean clothes, and a towel into my bag and in less than 20 minutes I am off after a quick goodbye to my mother. It's just her and me.

I jog all the way to the pitch. This morning when I open the front door I actually smile as the fresh air surrounds me, which even for me feels out of character; it's not often that I smile, but things have gone well lately, I have managed to avoid my troubles.

It's one of those gloomy, hazy, English mornings, which I love in all its woe. It's also going to be maybe an hour before I am faced with unwanted emotions, really, who can help but smile at that?

I arrive at the pitch with 20 minutes to go. I always arrive 20 minutes early; it's part of the routine. I live to have this time of solitude to warm up without the others, to think and to get my focus on. I take a sip of my protein shake as I walk into the locker room and that's when I am hit by a bus and go flying a hundred feet into the air; except there's no bus. Instead there's _Simon sodding Snow_. And I don't go flying, but I nearly drop everything I'm holding right then. I don't get hit by a bus obviously, but I am equally shocked as if I had been, Snow is never early for practice, he's barely ever even on time. He hasn't noticed me yet, the fucking tragedy of Simon Snow, always in his own world, and now he's _singing_ to himself. If someone other than me wanted him dead (Who isn't desperately in love with him,) I swear he wouldn't be standing here now ... taking his shirt off.

This is _not_ part of the routine.

 _No._

I think, inhaling sharply, I am tempted to run right out the door but I'm also afraid he'll notice me if I make any sudden movements.

So I stare at his skin. I've successfully avoided this situation for all these years of being on the same football team as him. It's a miracle really. Mostly sticking to my strategy of staying on the pitch overly long until everyone's left, but also, I believe, the miracle thing.

Like I had imagined, his back is sporadically spotted with moles just like his face is and I would very much not like to be staring at him right now, but then again, _I would_ very much like to stare at him. But I force myself into my usual bored manor as I heave my rucksack higher on my shoulder, clearing my throat loudly to let him know I'm there.

He turns.

"Oh… Hey." He states and turns back.

I ignore him and put my bag down on one of the benches nearest, grab a football and rush out of there before he says anything else. Snow has a knack for talking. Even with those he knows doesn't want to be talked to.

I run out on the field. The air is still as foggy as before and there's next to no wind. I put the ball down and kick it as hard as I fucking can straight into the net, tilting my body just as I swing my foot in a kick. As I still don't get quite the satisfaction from it, I do the process again, even harder this time. _Come on!_ I think. _Harder._ I kick it and I kick it. Until I realize. _This isn't part of the routine either._

 _Shit._

I always begin my warm ups with doing tricks with the ball, just to sort of "get to know the ball" before letting it down on the ground. I kick the ball back and forth between my knees, one knee at a time while counting.

11, 12, 13, 14 ... but for some reason I can't get past 25, _25 that is._ I can't seem to bloody focus. There's too much emotion running through my veins. I get more and more angry and I don't think of the time passing, until I realize that the rest of the team is now out on the pitch, and coach is here too. Everyone's helping her set everything up. I didn't notice if snow had joined me either, (he must've been here for _some_ reason,) but it's probably for the best.

 **Simon**

I set the last cone down and stretch out, looking across the field. The sun has just broken through the, not so long ago, thick fog and the clouds have opened up a blue hole in the sky. The grass is still dewy and it's cold. Autumn is here, all right.

I see Baz kicking the ball between his knees on the other side of the pitch. He doesn't seem to have noticed that the practice is about to begin. At first it annoys me greatly, before I think better of it. I've spent many years being not only annoyed with him, but outrageous to the point where I almost thought I couldn't take it and I've finally decided I have to stop letting him bother me.

It hasn't been easy. He screws with me to the point where it's almost lethal. Once he switched my water with _oil._ I could've fucking _died!_ But so far I have never been able to catch him in the act -but I know it's him. Of course it is. Who else is evil that I know? None other than Baz Pitch- Which means I don't actually have any proof to take to the coach so that I can get him kicked off.

Except for one time, when I did get proof. I had stayed late in the locker room and he'd stayed late as well, but on the pitch. When he got in, completely soaked from the rain I could see how irritated he was and he made a snide remark at me. We got into a fight, at first with words but then, and it took me by surprise, he tried to punch me. I knew he hated me, but I never actually thought he would ever get so physical about it.

Anyway. Then I knew for sure. And there were cameras in the locker room; it was all on tape, clear proof. I was in ecstasy. Finally I could get him kicked of the team. But the next day when I met the coach it was like my body had a whole other plan to continue on playing like any other day. The days passed and everyday I would get up and think: today is the day I'll tell her, but I never did. Then suddenly, weeks had passed and I realized that it was way too late to tell her.

Every time, after that, when Baz would push me extra hard during a game or snap at me, I would get angry at him, but I would also get angry with myself, curse myself, _loathe_ myself for not doing something about it when I'd had the chance.

And then we are off.

13 players split into two groups, half of the group (including me) each grabs a ball that they are supposed to dribble from the left side of the field to the right and the other half is to try and take the ball and dribble it to the opposite side.

I feel more annoyance well over me as Baz immediately targets me. I push it aside and instead put all my energy on getting the stupid ball to the other side of the court. I allow myself to look up for a second at him and I can see the determination in his eyes as he jogs closer to me.

 _Push it aside._ I think.

 **Baz**

Today I don't have an elaborate plan on how to disturb Snow, because I couldn't possibly have foreseen how he was going to disturb _me_ so out of the blue on this Monday morning. I couldn't possibly have foreseen the extra hatred that is now flooding through my veins like blood, putting my whole body in a stir. So I do what I can do. Every time I get near Snow with the ball: I push him with my side. Hard. And if I can also take the ball from him while at it, then that would obviously be favorable. But mostly I make with the pushing.

He's quick however. It's as if Snow has had a load of caffeine before he'd stepped onto the field. He's more intense than I've ever seen him, and it only makes me angrier, causes me to push him harder. I have yet to actually take the ball from him though, he's gone back and forth a few times now. I can feel his anger growing as well though, seething in every one of his pores. Every time I push harder I feel a pang in my chest at causing him pain, which only makes more anger flare up inside, making me want to push more and harder, unable to stop. It's an endless paradox.

Until finally when he falls down on the ground and I am almost relieved, _relieved._ That is until he looks around at me, and his eyes have pure hatred in them. For a second I think I might just lean over and puke right here and now at the sight of his expression, but I resist.

I hear the coach yell from behind me, but neither of us flicker our gaze. We hold it fast.

 _This is it._ I think. I've been caught in bright daylight. There's nothing I can do now except to accept my resignation. I have already been given serious warnings from her that if I don't lay off Snow, then I will have to be the one to leave the team and I already know that I've crossed that line this time.

I'm not even glaring back at him; I'm simply meeting his glare. I don't feel angry anymore, someone has robbed me of all emotion and all they've left is hopelessness. I can see why the robber didn't want that one; it's a cruel emotion. Then I realize my robber is myself.

* * *

The sun fell from the sky a while ago and darkness had surrounded me as I sit on my bed at home.

I feel transparent, like there's nothing left of me. The second love of my life has been taken away from me, and I'm empty.

Realization hits me that I'm not going to get to play anymore, and maybe that makes it hard to breathe. And maybe I need air so I decide to make my way down to the pitch, to say goodbye maybe.

Like, I know I'm off the team, heck that was why I'm so devastated, that realization doesn't hit me just _now_. But I haven't actually thought specifically about all the things I will no longer get to do. Play matches; get up early for practices before school, hanging out with the team, although I've never had friends on the team. Snow's a friend with _everyone_ on the team. (Not everyone.) That sort of stuff comes so easily for him.

And he is loveable I guess… If _clueless idiots_ are ones type. They are mine it appears.

I will never again get to watch him from the benches, as he looks so pure and happy, focusing only on the ball, but not ever for very long. Snow can never keep his focus on one thing. He's one of those people who bite their tongue when they concentrate. Those are the kinds of things I won't get to witness anymore.

I stand on the dark pitch. I've been on this pitch so many times in my life; I've probably stood on these exact straws of grass sometime before, maybe many.

 _This can't go on. You need to leave._ She'd said. It's like there's 50 or more people in my head all saying those words over and over.

I'm still in my football attire since this morning. I have my own ball with me and I begin kicking it the way I'd done this morning. I shoot some shots on the goal and I dribble, and then I just run without the ball. I run into the locker room, completely out of breath, everyone on the team has a key to it, but it's unlocked to my surprise, although it's dark in there. I move further inside and my stomach lurches when I see Simon Snow sitting on a bench in the dark. It isn't that dark, I can still see him quite well, but dark enough for me to find it weird that he hasn't turned on the lights.

He's still in his football attire just like me. Has he been here since this morning?

Snow speaks first. He nearly always does. It isn't necessarily that he's talkative, although he is; it's mostly that I'm so extremely un-talkative.

"What are you doing here? I thought you got kicked off?"

I hold up my key. "Still got a key though. Not that I need it with you leaving the door unlocked and all."

"I was gonna lock it when I left." He snaps. "Why are you such an asshole?"

I'm not going to answer him. I'm not going to pay any attention to him at all. But then he stands up and takes his shirt off, and that's when I loose it. Not _twice_ in one day.

"No." I say firmly. "Maybe how about you keep your shirt on for just this once." I snap before I can stop myself. Really? I think. Have I lost all sense?

Snow turns around, his angry eyes have been lost on him and instead he just looks baffled.

"Why?" he asks, confused.

"Well, why do you always take it off at the most inappropriate times?" I yell. I walk up to him, taking his shirt and throw it on the floor in ruthless anger.

"We're in a locker room." He answers, still as confused as before. He really is thick as a brick.

Maybe it's because nothing really matters anymore, now that I'm not coming back, or maybe it's because he's being extra thick, not realizing what is so obvious. Hence clueless idiots being my type …but I really feel like kissing him. I've felt like kissing him before, but now I actually feel like I might do it. I don't have him up against a wall though. There needs to be a wall, so I push him for the twentieth time today, back and up against the wall. I look him in the eyes and he looks scared. Of course he does, because he still doesn't fucking get it. That's the last straw. I kiss him, with nothing left to loose.

 **Simon**

I'm paralyzed when he kisses me. Out of pure shock. I thought for sure that this would be the day he finally killed me.

At first it feels wrong, really wrong. He has his hands on my shoulders and I sort of have my hands gripped around his wrists. But then he stops for a moment, breathing on my lips in the dark locker room. What had felt wrong before suddenly felt so right. Then we both attack each other's lips and I realize I'm not paralyzed anymore, I'm moving as much as him. Raising my hands from his wrists to his neck and down along his arm, and up again toward his hair. _His hair._ I emerge myself in the sensations of my hands in his hair, and the sensation of his lips and the sensation of his tongue. I make a list of things I want to do to Baz and I check of each and every one, but more things keep popping up in my head that I want to do, and I do them too, then I do some of the ones I did before again, and some of them I do over and over again. Sometimes he'll do something that makes me loose track of where I am, like when he lifts his fingers to the back of my ear and down alongside my neck, that gets me completely blank and I completely forget about the list situation, I stop thinking about things I want to do to him and instead let him do things to me. He really seizes the opportunity, for the first time leaving my lips alone and moving down my neck with his kisses and I curse myself for not thinking of that before.

"I've been wanting this for so long." He whispers and I smile broadly, leaning my head backwards against the wall as he continues to kiss my neck.

"Me too." I say. After a while I add: "I just didn't realize."

"You're so thick." He whispers again and attacks my mouth for the second time tonight.

"I know." I breathe between kisses, not really caring what he just called me, as long as he continues what he's doing. And he does. All night.

 **1 April 2016**


End file.
